Losing Grip
by shinsei101
Summary: Marik Ishtar struggles to keep his sanity as he fights the darkness that threatens to consume him. [one shot]


_/A.N./_

_This fanfic means a lot to me, as I see myself in the same hell as Marik. I'm struggling with depression, amongst other things. I don't mean to scare anyone–I'm on my meds, so it's all good! But I really put all my emotions into this fanfic and writing it was a real relief and I'm feeling a little better._

_Oh...and I know some people call him "Marik" or "Malik" but in this fanfic it's "Marik" so please bare with me._

_Please enjoy and review! Thanks!_

**/ . L . O . S . I . N . G . . G . R . I . P . /**

Hell. My life. One and the same. Ever day of my pitiful life is a struggle in a losing battle. The battle for my sanity.

Marik Ishtar. I believe that is my name. Or so I have been called these sixteen years of my life. But I'm not sure. Not anymore. Not now. Not ever.

Atemu. I relate to that name so much more. The name of that god-forsaken pharaoh whose memory that is inscribed in my back when I was ten. I find it so much easier to remember that name. That pain.

Fire. Knives. Pain. That is my past. Not that my present is any better. And I very much doubt my future will be. If I even have a future. I very much doubt that too.

I walk through this world in a constant haze. A fog that grows thicker with each passing day. It clouds my vision. My judgement. As if that wasn't bad enough already. Or so I'm told.

This morning I awoke at the crack of dawn. Then thought.

My dream. The same as always. I fall asleep, and then am tortured. Every night in my dreams. Every night the same. But a different type of torture, each night becoming more brutal. More personal.

Last night seemed so much slower than before.

The pain. So real. As if not a dream at all. But it was just that. A dream. I'd always wake up. I'd wake up after the torture. After I died.

Before I reenter the waking world, I see my punisher. My tormentor. My savior.

I see myself.

Fear. I fear my dreams. Yet I yearn for them. I want them. I welcome them. For fear lies not in sleeping. But in waking.

Whispers. I hear them before I sleep. They tell me many things. Horrid things. That is where the true fear lies. The soft, delicate sound in my ears. That is true terror. Dreams are the relief. The escape.

This morning I awoke at the crack of dawn. Then thought. I feel my grip loosen.

One of my Ghouls tried to feed me. He brought me food to my chamber. To cheer me up? I don't know. Probably to get on my good side. If I even have one. All I know is bad. Like the mistake he made. Bad. He brought me food. Meat. Fool.

Then the fog lifted. There was blood on my hands. And a body to dispose of. But that is what Rishid is for.

Voices. They speak to me now. Tiny whispers in my ear. Almost pleasant. The fog returns. And my grip loosens.

I pass another of my Ghouls in the hallway. He bows. And stares. The same as the others. The stare I always receive. The stare I despise. The stare I love. The stare that drives me insane. If I'm not already there yet. The stare that questions my sanity.

Another body.

Why do I not remember? The blood? The death? The screams? The terror? All I know is fog. And my failing grip.

Cold water clears the fog. Only for awhile. A short while. But relief from Hell is welcomed. I make it a daily ritual to dunk my head in the icy relief. Or Rishid does.

My Ghouls failed me. Again. Damn that pharaoh. And his memories. Which are mine, yet his. I dispose of the failures. But all I know is fog. What is I who disposed of them? Maybe. I decide to take matters into my own hands. I enter the world as Namu.

I give Rishid my name. Rishid is Marik. Rishid is enemy of the pharaoh. And his friends. And they believe it. Fools.

If I can give him my name, can I not give him my trouble? My fear? My sorrow? My guilt? My hate? My pain?

I feel my grip loosen.

Time grows short. For the pharaoh. For me.

I see him.

He sees me.

I see fog.

My grip loosens.

Another day passes. Another fog. Another night. Another whisper. Another dream. Another Hell.

The sun wakes me. The brilliant, glorious sun. The sun which I adore. The sun which gives hope to all. Except me. Before the torture, I had dreams of light. The sun. It haunted my dreams. Its bright rays. But no more. There is no sun. No hope. There is no sun in Hell.

Rishid lost. His fight is done. As is his cover. And mine. Fool.

I am Marik. The pharaoh knows.

With Rishid gone, the fog thickens. It grows all the while. Cold water helps no more. Nothing can help anymore. So thick. I can't see. Can't hear. Can't think. Can't breath.

My grip loosens.

Voices. I hear them now. As I do all the time now. As with the fog, they too grow. They too thicken. No longer whispers. Shouting. Screaming. It hurts. They hurt. Strong. Forceful. Demanding.

I refuse.

Pain. I feel only pain. The voices bring this pain. Not like in dreams. Not like in the past. Unlike any other pain. More...painful pain. A unique pain. Long. Excruciating. Welcoming.

The pain numbs me. The fog blinds me. The voice deafens me.

Darkness is all. Darkness is complete. Darkness is me.

I let go.


End file.
